She
finally ripped off the bandages and let the wounds breathe.
Unapologetic
of choosing to repair of what they broke, she bought herself time to heal.
They
cannot peg her for emotionally stunted just because she doesn’t have
abandonment issues anymore.
Her
personality change is not a pathology they can pride themselves on having
diagnosed.
She
picks her own battles today and finds nothing worth gratuitous
self-flagellation.
She
has evolved as the underdog warrior you wished you wagered on not led astray by
your ill-founded assumption.
They
find her new-found strength out of character.
Suffice
it to say, she does not need anyone to validate her.
If
you borrow my lens, her petite stature gets augmented by my perspective.
May
be we all have to be a little messed up before we step up and turn assertive?
The
art of moving on doesn’t lend itself well to the practice of keeping old
friends.
Some
folks can only see one in the state of emotional shambles on one’s beam ends.
So
she leaves behind a trail of bruised memories, questioning faces and old strife.
She tenaciously got herself to first base with life.
Yet
there are no bridges they wouldn’t burn, no earth they wouldn’t scorch to bring
her to her alcoholic bottom.
As
time goes by, the grief contains itself with her face no longer wine-sodden.
That
old sore is a bold scar on her frame she wears as a badge of honor.
Unbeknownst
to many, one dreamy night she was reborn upon wings gossamer.
